


And I Prayed That We Could Switch Places

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3814624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: root x Shaw prompt: when root told finch "if worse comes to pass if you could give Shaw a message" he never said "I think she already knows" and root is the one that is taken at the stock exchange and afterwards, finch gives Shaw the message root told him and it ignites Shaw and she doesn't stop till she finds root</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Prayed That We Could Switch Places

“Second chances  _are_  overrated, Harold,” Shaw tells him in a level tone as they all crowd into a large service elevator. Peering over, Root sees John lying on the ground, hand pressed to his bullet wound, and Lionel stands, eyes worried but stern: _he’ll be alright._

Harold hits the elevator button. Nothing happens.

“What the-” Fusco steps forward, looking at the control panel as Harold hits it once more.

“The controls aren’t responding,” Harold tells them all, a tone of fret lacing his words. Root looks to him, then her eyes fall on Shaw.  _Why is she here?_ Root wonders to herself with dread.  _She was never meant to be here, if I just hadn’t called her for help._  Root looks back down at her gun, feeling how light it is in her hand.  _How empty_. Stuffing it into her waist line, she watches as Shaw’s eyes travel straight out, scanning the basement for something- anything.

“The desk.” Shaw’s words are dawning, and Root’s eyes travel that way, coming to a large, red button on the wall. “There’s an override button.”

* * *

 

Root looks at the back of Shaw’s head as she steps forward, able to see the gears turning in Shaw’s mind.  _No, no there has to be some other way_. Root’s eyes flicker back to the button attached to the wall.  _Why is it so far away?_  She wonders if there is a way to throw something at it, but knows with a sinking heart it would be nearly impossible to hit.

“Someone’s gotta get to that button and hold them off.”  _Is she thinking..?_

Root sees Shaw start forward, and grabs her upper arm quickly, keeping her in place as Root comes closer to her from behind, mouth close to her ear and voice dangerous. “Sameen, if you even  _think_  I’m gonna let you.” Her eyes stay on Shaw’s face, willing Shaw to look back, but she won’t, she’s too focused on the glowing red light on the opposite side of the room. From her close proximity, Root can see the smallest sneer curl on Shaw’s lip and she rips herself free, turning back on Root fiercely.

“Oh, for God’s  _sake_ ,” Shaw spits, eyes livid. Root looks at her, eyes begging her not to do this. She sees Shaw’s eyes soften, and her heart swells painfully.  _She can’t do this, she wasn’t even supposed to be here, let alone die here._  Root pulls her gaze reluctantly to Harold, who meets her evenly. She furrows her brow in a question, and his eyes widen slightly. He gives her a microscopic nod of a promise.

Root swallows the lump in her throat, knowing what has to happen.  _I need a weapon. I need to tell her. I-_

Root can hear the sound of approaching footsteps and knows Shaw will not stand dormant much longer. Her eyes are on Root, and she shakes her head sadly.  _No, I won’t let you._

Without thinking, Root lunges forward, pressing Shaw to the wall of the elevator and kissing her. It’s quick, and it’s simple, but Root can feel her heart shattering and soaring none the less. Her hand trails down to Shaw’s side, and the gun in Shaw’s hand falls easily from her grasp. _It must be the shock of it all,_ Root thinks, pulling away with the loaded gun in hand.

Faster than Shaw has time to acknowledge, Root is pulling down the elevator gate- on the opposite side. Root kicks the latch over with her foot, giving one last look at Shaw. She sees her eyes wide in shock, back still against the icy cold wall, but slowly coming around. She sees Harold coming to Shaw’s side, knowing the promise he’s made.

Root turns, eyes setting in determination and gun raised, she runs over to the button, hitting it hard. A deafening whiz of electricity spurs to life, and the loud clank of steely lips begin to close over the elevator. Everything feels slow, like life has inched to a crawl, and she sees a man rounding the corner.

Root shoots once, hitting him in the shoulder. The second in his other, and he falls to the ground. Root can hear a rough banging against the first layer door, but doesn’t look back. Can’t look back.

“Hey!” Root can hear Shaw’s angered voice reach her ears, and Root stiffens her jaw, not going to let this get the better of her. Shaw checks her waistband, but feels nothing there. She realizes with her own flare of suppressed horror that she is weaponless. There’s nothing she can do now but watch. And yell. And bang on the gate angrily, all the while Harold and Fusco strain to pull her back. But she’s too enraged now, a new deranged burning in her eyes.

Martine rounds the corner, blonde hair still in an impeccable bun, eyes icy and cold as stone. Root shoots, but not before a bullet slams into her side, flames instantly searing her skin. Another one burrows deep into her abdomen and she falls to the ground, twisting sideways at the sheer force of the bullets. She can feel as her hair becomes weightless in the air, trailing above her until she hits the ground. Then her hair falls back upon her in a tangled mess, and she rolls onto her back in unimaginable pain. The yelling and banging is hidden behind a layer of cotton.

Martine approaches, eyes set on Root’s and Root gives her a contemptuous glare. Down, down the barrel of the gun comes in alignment with her eyes, set at a point just between them. And still Martine watches, a coldness in her entire being, although Root swears she enjoys it all.

From the elevator, Shaw gets one last furious slam of a fist against the metal before Fusco pulls her back by the waist, eyes pained at the sight laying out before him. The doors continue to close, leaving nothing but the gun and Root in sight. Then, it is only Root. Shaw spits out a swear-ridden threat at the blonde, her last attempt, until the small sliver of Root’s face is replaced with unforgiving steel.

There is a loud crackle of the doors slamming shut. Or was it the sound of a gun?

________\ If Your Number’s Up/________

 _“If the worst comes to pass… could you give Shaw a message?” Harold looked at Root’s face, a pain welling deep in her eyes and burrowed in each word, all of her seeming to accept an untimely death._  She’d never expected to be so happy anywhere,  _Harold knew this already, could see it in how she never seemed to take a moment of her time for granted. He knew she didn’t think she deserved it either._ But you do,  _he thought to himself._  You do.

 _She stood over him at his desk, and he stared at her, an agonized dawning washing over his eyes, face dropping, knowing exactly where she was going with this._  It won’t happen,  _Harold wanted to tell her._  You’re not going to die, not yet.

 _But she believed it. And she knew that if she had to she would. That all these things she’d come to care about were worth dying for._  Me… John… Lionel… Sameen. Most importantly Sameen.

_Harold saw the flashing of memories before his eyes, his own small recollections of their endeavors together. Shaw seeking her out; Shaw not killing her at the slightest chance, no matter how many times Root seemed to electrocute her. How easily Root took to her, and how Shaw took to Root- in her own subtle way. Harold thinks back to his first meeting with Shaw, how she wanted no part in his and John’s shenanigans. It took her a long while to come around. But with Root, she kidnapped her, and Shaw stayed with her. Worked with her, grumbling or not. He recalled how Root animated the character in Shaw, something no one else seemed capable of. She got angry, sure, she was always angry. But this fluster, the jealousy- and some times the smiles- were something only Root could bring to light._

But Shaw impacted her too,  _Harold reminded himself. She gave Root a partner and a challenge- she gave Root loyalty._  Something,  _Harold realized,_  she seldom received. _Harold could see all of the doting, affectionate looks Root would give her, whether Shaw knew it or not. This look wasn’t like those looks. This look was serious and hurt. It was sad and it was hopeless._

_“Of course, Ms. Groves.”_

Harold is snapped out of his daze by Bear’s wet muzzle as it nuzzles Harold’s hand, urging him to play. His face is drenched, the water droplets trailing all the way back to the water bowl, and a soggy tennis ball rests at Harold’s feet. Harold looks down at him, the plead in Bear’s eyes, and sighs. He pats the top of Bear’s head kindly, then stands from his computer chair, eyes drifting to the bench tucked away in the corner.

Shaw sits there, elbows on her thighs as she stairs at the wall, as if willing it to speak. A pocket knife loops in and out of her fingers as she twirls it subconsciously. She’d been pacing back and forth for over an our, muttering to herself with her hands balled into tight fists, knuckles white. The second they’d made it to the lobby floor, Shaw was set to take the stairs back down; however, none of the men would permit it. Shaw hadn’t even addressed John’s bullet wound, too enraged to try to help, and took to pacing, every cog and pulley in her mind working double time. She’s angry- beyond it- and Harold can feel that heated loathing radiating across the subway station, causing the air to be stifled with hotness.

He walks towards her, seeing her muscles growing more and more tense with each passing second. His steps are slow and cautious, not wanting to set off a land mine within her. He is two feet away from her when her taut muscles unravel, a chain reaction from shoulders to elbows to forearms to wrists. In the blink of an eye she throws the knife like a dart, and it sticks into the opposite wall. Harold’s eyes widen, and he licks his lips before clearing his throat. She doesn’t look over to him, but he’s sure he has her attention.

“There is something I need to tell you,” he says, thinking back to his words, his promise in that elevator. _If the worst comes to pass…_ Harold hadn’t given up hope-  _how could I?_ \- but this seemed like that occasion. When Shaw doesn’t answer, he presses forward, this time with a new angle. “It has to do with Ms. Groves.”

He can see the visible change in her posture, she straightens slightly, every part of her becoming more attentive. Her hands clasp together, wringing one another tightly. Still, she says nothing.

“There was a time, not too long ago, where she feared the worst might happen to her,” he begins slowly, eyes glued to Shaw, making sure not to push her into hostility. “It didn’t then, bu-”

“She’s not  _dead_ , Harold.”

He stops, breath held in his lungs and words caught in his throat. There is a furiousness in her tone, but the anguish is unmistakable.

“I… I would like to believe so,” Harold assures her solemnly before continuing. “However, I gave her my word that if something like this ever happened, I would deliver a message to you.” From her perch on the bench, Shaw chuckles bitterly.

“Sounds like something she would do.” He sees her fingers twitch, and he wonders if- past all those barriers of emotionless walls- there is a curiosity in her, an anticipation or a nervousness of what he might say next. He shakes his head, looking down at the ground, then retrieves a small slip of paper from his pocket, unfolding it gingerly. Just at the touch, Harold is blasted with the gravity of the message. The way Root spoke the words to him, how harrowing it all truly was. He tries to block out Root’s face in saying the words, but finds it impossible.

“She- she said it to me, but I wrote it down later, as not to forget.” Shaw is silent again, but her eyes give a fleeting flicker to Harold, waiting for him to continue. He clears his throat once more, wishing he didn’t have to do this. _I hoped you could one day tell her on your own, Miss. Groves,_  Harold thinks to himself, or maybe to her. As he recites it, he hears it in Root’s voice rather than his own.

 _“Hey, Sweetie, hope you’re not busy. But, you’re probably busy- we always are. I just, I wanted to have a little chat- just between us gals. But uh, if Harold is telling you this instead of me, then I guess we never quite got that chat. I know, you probably think I’m crazy- I_ was _in a psych ward after all._

 _“Listen, I know- you’re a sociopath. You’ve said it before. And me? I- I’m a reformed killer for hire… We’re perfect for each other. You-… You’re gonna figure that out some day. You’re not big on feelings, you never have been, but… Maybe you could think about this one. Maybe face this, this- I don’t know- idea, or thought, or feeling someday. Maybe_ someday _. I think… you’ll understand what I mean.”_

Harold refolds the page, about to stuff it back in his blazer pocket when he stops. He brings it back before his eyes, inspecting it a moment, then sticks out his hand, holding it to Shaw. He has to force his eyes up from the page to her, and he sees her already looking at him.

Her lips are pressed thin, eyes closed off and dark, haunted on the outside, yet revealing nothing more to Harold. She studies him a minute, then takes the paper softly, encasing it within her fist and looking straight forward once more. Harold feels a frustrated anger bubbling within him, exasperated.

“You were very important to her,” Harold says almost bitterly, going to turn away.

“I’m gonna find her.”

“ _Hm_?” Harold furrows his brow, turning back to look at her.

“I’m going to find that- that  _idiot_ ,” Shaw’s voice rages with each word, seething and steaming as she comes to a stand. She stalks over to her knife in the wall, ripping it out harshly and stuffing it back into her boot. Harold’s eyes widen.

“Ms. Shaw, we haven’t gotten any lea-”

“I’ll figure it out.” Shaw retorts, pulling the collar of her jacket up higher on her neck, ready to leave. Harold steps in her path, eyes asking her not to go.

“If you just  _wait_ ,” Harold offers, a hope in his words. “We might get a clue that cou-”

“I’m not just going to  _sit_  around while she’s  _who_  knows where with some rivaling AI.”

“We don’t know that for sure.” Harold insists, and Shaw’s eyes flare with excruciating anger.

“You think she’s dead?” Shaw asks in a level voice, fatal as a black mamba.

“I think we may never know.”

“I  _need_  to know,” Shaw spits back venomously, determination and hurt warring in her low growl. Harold is taken aback by the sound, and his eyes soften sorrowfully. “I  _need_  an answer if Root is alive, or if she’s  _dead_.” With that, Shaw brushes past Harold in agitation, eyes set straight ahead and jaw locked as she heads for the subway exit. Harold turns, watching her, dumbfounded.

“Where are you going?” He calls out, but she doesn’t turn around.

______\ We’ll Find You /______

 _Three months._  It had been three months. _But it feels like three years. Three decades. Three eternities- or maybe lifetimes._ Shaw sits on a bench at the corner bus stop, legs crossed and newspaper just below her eyes, concealing her entire face. She hadn’t been back to the station in a while,  _not since…_ Shaw didn’t want to admit the words, the mere thought itself bringing a boiling anger to her blood.

 _Their betrayal._  That’s what she thought of it. Harold had received a lead, and they all went for it. Three days since Root’s disappearance- sixty-six hours of waiting.  _And for nothing._ The person they found wasn’t Root, but rather a woman who worked at the stock exchange.  _Wrong place, wrong time, I guess._ She remembers standing on one of New York’s corners that afternoon, standing before a camera Root had talked to once before- a long time ago. Shaw stood there, loathing and frustration in her gaze as she stared into the eyes of a god. But it was no god to her.

Harold had told her that they could not continue looking, not after the dangerous ending they had with the other clue. John agreed with him. And Lionel.  _Me against the world again,_ Shaw thought with a bitter chuckle,  _but then it always has been._  She hadn’t been back after that. On occasion, she’d stop by a place she knew John would be- talk shortly and leave.

The bus pulls up, and Shaw stands, walking up to the open doors and slipping past the driver. She drifts to the back corner seat, sitting down and pretending to read the news paper once more. There hadn’t been a lead. Root’s case was as cold as a corpse; Shaw wished Root wasn’t the same. She doesn’t have hope, never did.  _Hope won’t find her_ , Shaw tells herself for the umpteenth time.  _Determination will._

A woman in a crisp dress suit steps onto the bus, hair dark brown and pulled into a tight bun. _I liked you better as a blonde_ , Shaw sneers to herself, feeling as if her touch could incinerate the paper she’s holding. Martine. Shaw had been trailing her for weeks meticulously, having to restrain herself day in and day out from killing her on the spot. _How easy it would be_ , Shaw relishes the thought, but again refrains. Martine takes a seat in the second to front row, pulling out her cellphone. Shaw takes out her own, unlocking it and looking in on Martine’s conversation. It had taken some work to blue jack her phone considering how highly protected it was, but Shaw had finally accomplished the task.  _Something Root could have done in no time_ , Shaw thinks, then shakes her head free of the thought, focusing her gaze back to the phone. It hadn’t given her much yet, but there was always a chance.

???: There was something you requested?

Martine: Yes, why haven’t I been activated.

???: Samaritan wanted to handle this matter personally.

Martine: Then let me take care of Ms. Shaw.

???: You’ve already had your chances with that lot.

Martine: Greer, it’s time for her to go.

???: I suppose you’re right. Shame really. Come directly to C1 first, we’ll discuss the rest of this in private.

Martine: Yes, sir.

Shaw feels a stir in her stomach, knowing something has changed. The bus stops, and Martine stands, ready to get off. Everyday it was a different stop, an eight tier pattern. _Two, eight, six, three, one, four, seven, five, repeat._ Today is stop six, however, Martine stands at three, stepping off the bus quickly. Shaw waits a moment, then rushes to the bus doors just before they close. The driver mutters at her angrily, then finishes closing the doors and drives off.

Shaw can feel her pulse beat all the way to her fingers, excitement an electrical current surging through the air, every hair standing on end from the strength of the current. Shaw follows behind Martine, just far enough back that a single blink could lose sight of her completely.  _But I can’t lose my trail,_  Shaw thinks with determination.

Martine takes a swift cut into a side street, the thick throng of people becoming a small trickle. She knows if she continues much longer she’ll be spotted, and bristles in defeat. Stopping her pursuit, she leans into a gap between two buildings, flipping her newspaper out so hard in rips half way down the center. She wants to tear it all the way, shred it like confetti and set it on fire. Out of the corner of her eye, Shaw sees Martine stop, turn, and walk into a building. Her heartbeat quickens, knowing now exactly where she must go. She pulls out her phone, taking a quick picture of the building, then stows it away. Shaw looks the building up and down.  _She could be in there_ , Shaw thinks, _Root could be in there. But how to get in there?_

A short woman with olive skin and a dark ponytail comes hustling forward, glasses pushed high up on the bridge of her nose. Shaw catches the flash of a red badge attached to her waist band, and a devious idea emerges. Just as the woman passes, Shaw tosses her newspaper to the cobblestone walkway. The woman steps on it, heel instantly at a loss for traction, and she slips, landing square on her back with a sickening thud of her skull.

Like a vulture, Shaw swoops in, picking her up under the arms and pulling her back, back to the shadows. No one seems to have noticed.

Further, Shaw drags her to the center of the two separated buildings, a place even the sun dares not reach. In the utter darkness of the alley, Shaw dials Harold on her cell phone, wedging it between her ear and shoulder as she yanks away the badge.

“ _Hey_! Who are-”

“Say another word and I will  _shoot_  you.” Shaw’s words are deadly and serious; the woman gives a small hiccup of terror but keeps quiet.

“Hello? Ms. Shaw are you al-”

“No time to catch up Harold, I need you to run a name for me.” She hears the sound of feet on tile, and a moment later chair wheels glide into place.

“What is it?”

Shaw squints into the darkness, barely making out the small print. “…Wendy… Chatner.”

“What are you  _doing_  with my-” Harold hears a scared woman’s voice, loud and piercing, then a quiet whiz of noise. A long, drawn out moan of agony. Harold’s eyes widen, unsure of what is going on. He types in the name hurriedly.

“I  _told_  you  _not_  to talk,” Shaw’s voice is condescending, a sickeningly sweet tone in it- one that makes Harold’s blood run cold.  _What is she doing_. The pained sound quiets to short whimpers, Shaw’s gun undoubtedly in this mystery woman’s sight. “It was just your knee,” Shaw assures her in that same, fake tone. “And I promise not to do it again, as long as you  _keep_  your voice  _down_. Okay?”

“M-Ms. Shaw, what is going on?”

“I’ll explain later,” she deadpans, back to her normal self. “What do you got?”

“Wendy Chatner is twenty-eight years old. She was a nurse for a short span of time, but is currently working as a temp in an office on West 55th street, New York City.” There is sloppy typing, Harold’s fingers jittery from uncertainty and fear for this woman- Wendy- in the dangerous company of Sameen Shaw. “The… That’s odd…”

“ _What_ ,” Shaw demands.

“The business name… It’s Carrow. Please, Ms. Shaw, tell me what is going on-”

“There’s a hospital near here, isn’t there?” Shaw asks, ignoring him. He types on his keyboard.

“Yes, four blocks away, Roosevelt Hospital.”

“They could have taken her there.”

“Excuse me?”

“But they wouldn’t have done that.” Shaw, without responding to Harold, diverts her attention back to Wendy, who watches her with pained eyes. She quakes in fear.

“Why are you working in the business across the street?” Shaw asks, voice surprisingly conversational.

“B-better p-p-pay-y. Th-they n-needed some- someone w-w-it-th-h m-medical-l training.”

“For what.” Wendy remains silent, and Shaw places the gun to Wendy’s other knee, silencer cold against her skin. “ _C'mon_ , Wendy.”

“I-I- I don’t want to go to  _jail_!” Wendy wails, and Shaw’s eyes light in Hell-ridden humor.

“Do I  _look_  like the person that would be sending you to jail?” Wendy gulps, then shakes her head fretfully no. “So, answer my question.”

“They, uh, they have p-people. People in the basement. L-like me, and we- we see to people hurt on the job. People- people they come back with bullet wounds, or stab wounds, and we- we tend to them. We are good people, we-”

“Do you only tend to the workers?” Wendy is silent for a moment, and Shaw grabs her collar front, causing Wendy to cry out.

“No  _no_! There-there have been others!”

“Like who.”

“One- one time there was a lady. She had a heart attack and we, we fixed her up; gave her a new life. She-she used to work at a CVS- but but we-we helped her. He said she is a councilwoman now in-in Maple. We  _helped_  her! Her- her life is  _better_  now.”

“Has a woman with brown hair, say 5'8”, come by?“ The woman gives a vigorous nod.

“Not, not by me, but m-my friends Judy and Clyde told me about one. Bad, bad,  _very_  bad-”

“When you saw her, was she alive?” Shaw can barely hear past the rushing of blood in her temples, and she holds her breath, waiting. On the other side of the line, Shaw hears not a peep, knowing Harold must be on edge too. Shaw’s fingers tremble with trepidation, mind screaming in impatience for an answer, all the while unsure of the outcome.

“Yes.”

_________\ And I Prayed That We Could Switch Places /________

Shaw swipes the card at the front door, and a moment later, the red light above the glass door turns green. There is a clicking noise, and the door pops open slightly. Grabbing the handle, Shaw pulls it open purposefully, new heels clicking against the marble floor. Walking past a large glass pane, Shaw takes a quick look at herself. Gray pencil skirt, ruffly, white blouse with a matching gray blazer, and black heels with a dangerous point at the toes. She pushes the fake glasses higher up on her face, then touches her ponytail self-consciously before continuing towards the elevator. She holds the black leather purse close to her chest, both hands on it, tapping her foot in impatience.

“You’re  _late_ , temp!” A man shouts to her from the front desk. She doesn’t look back at him, knowing if he sees her face, he’ll know she’s an impostor. “This is the  _second_  time in the last week. Keep it up and you’ll get the  _boot_ , ya here?” His voice is stern and snotty- Shaw can feel his hostile eyes on her neck. She nods quietly, then dashes quickly into the elevator, hitting the bottom floor button right away.  _The basement._

The door closes, and Shaw gives a sigh of relief, having no one else on the elevator. She raps her fingernails against the material of the purse, feeling the hard outline of the handgun just within.  _This all feels too simple,_ she thinks, an air of caution gripping her lungs. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open without another sound.

Stepping out, she comes to a brightly lit floor filled with white walls and white floors with a white ceiling, all scattered with young women and men in white lab coats. Shaw looks around, sees a coat wrack filled with them, and swipes one, pulling it on and buttoning it up. Coming to another set of glass doors, she sees a card scanner. Walking over, she places hers under the reader.

The light blinks red, coupled with an aggressive beeping.  _Shit_ , Shaw thinks to herself, among other swears, and flips open her purse flap, ready to draw her weapon if necessary. Then, the door is pushed open.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” a man with blonde hair and a dashing smile says with sheepishly blushing cheeks. “That thing’s been going wacky all day. You new here?”

“Uh, yeah,” Shaw tells him, forcing an amiable smile to her face, closing her purse. The man, more like a boy, smiles wider, beckoning her in.

“Let me give you a tour,” he says kindly.  _Is he oblivious to his occupation?_ Shaw wonders, giving him a suspicious look over when he turns around. Scanning the rest of the bunch, she finds that they are all incognizant of their situations. “Here, we have the patient healing facility.” He gestures to a row of empty, white cots. “We administer medicine here.”

“Across this way, ” he gestures past the glass wall into another empty room, “is where we operate.” There is a single bed, and multitudes of equipment. _But no people,_ Shaw thinks, feeling her stomach start to sink. “We have rest stations back here,” the boy says, opening a white-painted door in a solid, white wall. They walk through to an equally lit, equally painted room, and there are a few beds laid out in the small space. “These are for any of our agents who have to stay over night. We all need rest.”

Shaw finds it hard to maintain her happy-go-lucky composure, anticipation making her sick and annoyance wanting to take over her features. An eye roll and a scowl for this unknowing child.

“What’s back there?” Shaw asks politely, pointing to another white door in another white wall. His smile falters momentarily.

“That is our visitor care center.” Shaw nods, as if the words make complete sense.

“May I see it?” She asks, giving pleading eyes to the boy, all the while wanting nothing more than to leave him there and storm the premises.

“Of course, but I- I must warn you,” he drops his voice to a low seriousness. “Things are not always as nice back there as they are up here. Not many people like working with the visitors. They aren’t always… accepting of our help.” His eyes are conflicted, and Shaw sees reason cross his face for the very first time.  _He knows something is going on that shouldn’t._

Clearing his throat, he steps forward boldly, hand on the door. “Only Wendy, Judy, and I work back here. You’ll meet Wendy later- she’s always late- and Judy, but you can feel free to work back here too. We are always short handed with the visitors.” With that, he opens the door.

Instantly, Shaw can tell there is something different about it. A coldness washes over her face and neck, coiling around her fingers frostily.  _Like a refrigerator._ The lights are more dim, the walls not as white, and everything is sectioned off. There is one main hallway all the way back, white-painted steel doors lining each side with one small, thick glass window in each. The boy walks forward slowly, giving Shaw enough time to have a quick peek in each window.

A dark man asleep, a red-head woman pacing beside a bed, an older man staring aimlessly out the window with eyes that touch the soul. A young, brown-haired child crying on a cot, a blonde woman banging at the door, although not a single sound of it reaches Shaw’s ears. On and on she looks, all the way to the last door. She peers in through the window.

Empty.

 _She’s not here._  The thought is numb in Shaw’s head, as if she cannot truly grasp it. The boy brings Shaw to a large ’T’ at the end of the hall, each small side-path spanning twenty feet before hitting a dead end. This wall isn’t white, but rather a stainless steel with cabinets in them. Each is approximately twenty-four inches across and eighteen up, matching, stainless steel handles fitted to each. Every cabinet has a number in its center, and Shaw feels her stomach wriggling with anxious worms.

The boy comes to the first cabinet he sees- thirty B- and pulls on it. It glides open without a sound, stainless steel front giving way to a long, icy tray. On it, a body kept under a thin white sheet.

“Visitors that don’t make it stay here until Tuesday. People come for them on Tuesdays.” Shaw looks over at him emotionlessly, watching him fight to maintain a positive smile, to no avail. Even his tone is defeated- worried even- and a haunting fills his beautiful, green eyes. He doesn’t look like a boy anymore. “You don’t have to look if you don’t want to; I understand. I threw up the first time,” he tells her kindly, trying to break the ice. But Shaw’s focus is back on the covered corpse.

She can see pale fingers poking out from under the coverings, pale as marble, still as a statue. Up further, Shaw sees a few tendrils of wavy brown hair cascading down the tray’s side, limp- lifeless. Shaw’s heart races and jumps and sinks all at once, not knowing what to think or how to think it. On the outside, she keeps her composure.

He gives Shaw a fleeting look, then rolls down the thin sheet, revealing only her face. More wavy hair, pushed back from her face. Eyes open eerily. Shaw peers at her, then steps back, indifferent. He smiles at her, impressed. “You’re pretty good for your first time,” he tells her encouragingly, and she gives him a smile, pretending to be proud of this accomplishment. It’s not my first, she thinks to herself in annoyance. Then, there is a trickle of relief.

 _It wasn’t her._  The woman in that cabinet had blue eyes, and a face unknown to Shaw. Bringing her eyes back to the boy, she sees him staring opposite the cabinets, to the opposing wall. Curious, she comes to his side, seeing it filled with photos. In between two sides, there is a red dividing line. The left side reads ‘Living’ and the right side ‘Dead.’

“Who are they?” Shaw asks, curious.

“Our visitors,” he informs her with a small twinge of pride. “We like to keep track of them, so we take a picture each.”

Shaw takes a step forward, bringing her eyes to the left side.

There.

She clenches her jaw to keep her heart from thumping to the floor, feeling an army of butterflies surging through her stomach. The bottom left corner holds a picture of a woman with wavy brown hair, messy and untamed, skin a sickly shade of green. Her brown eyes are cast at the camera murderously, lip curled in a venomous sneer. An unmistakable sneer. Shaw feels a smile break across her face, and can’t for the life of her conceal it.  _Root._

“I know, it’s wonderful,” the boy says, nodding his head and smiling. “All the people we have saved.” Shaw licks her bottom lip, then touches the picture of Root gingerly.

“Tell me about this one.”

Shaw looks over at him, and he watches her with a smile in his eyes. “ _That_  one? Oh, she was a  _doozy_ ,” he says with a chuckle in his voice. “Judy and I worked on her.”  _So he must be Clyde,_  Shaw realizes, recalling Wendy’s words. ‘ _Bad, bad, very bad’._  “She  _bit_  me,” Clyde grumbles, holding up his right hand. Peering at it closely, Shaw can see deep teeth prints embedded into his flesh. “We had to strap her down. Kept muttering to herself too, and looking at me weird. Wouldn’t smile for the camera at all.” Shaw nods, hoping her expression is neutral.

“I didn’t see her- that one- in the rooms,” Shaw says casually, hoping for more intel.

“That’s because she was moved from our care yesterday,” Clyde says with a satisfied sigh. “Greer- the man upstairs- needed her help. Apparently she’s good with computers. She’s at our server in Baltimore right now- Edge Hosting LLC.”

“Thanks, Clyde,” Shaw says, truly meaning it, and walks back the way she came. He gives her a muddled look.

“Where are you  _going_?!” He calls back to her in confusion, but she doesn’t turn around. “How do you know my  _name_?!” She walks out of the visitor care center, past the rest stations and other workers, taking the stairs and exiting the building.

_I found you, Root. I’m coming._


End file.
